


Spandrel

by Basingstoke



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-05
Updated: 2000-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:18:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spandrel is the curved triangular space between two joined arches, as in a cathedral.  In a cathedral the spaces are filled with wonderful pictures and carvings, perfectly suited to the confined space, so that it seems as if the space had been created for the pictures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spandrel

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Dee for the beta.

#  one.

It's hot. Very hot.

 

 

Dief and I are lying under the window with the fan turned on us. I'm in my underwear, pondering nudity, and Dief is simply lolling flat on his side. The only movement in him is the flicker of his tongue and the quiver of his sides as he pants.

 

 

It's past 1900 so I couldn't justify my presence at the consulate any longer, not even for Diefenbaker's sake; the cleaning crew needs space to work, after all. So we're at home.

 

 

The sun is low in the sky but the thick, choking heat still wells from the ground. The breeze will not cool until the sun is well below the horizon. The air shimmers over the asphalt, which reminds me of the aurora for one giddy moment--but they're nothing alike.

 

 

Still, the sun sets early here. No sepia-toned midnight views even in the height of summer. I'm trying not to miss it.

 

 

I bought a bag of ice for Dief. I never would have pictured buying ice, but the old refrigerator can't withstand the heat and nothing freezes inside it. I borrowed a trash bag from Mrs. Gamez and emptied the ice into it, making Dief a bed. His breath condenses on the cold plastic.

 

 

I saved a bit of ice for myself. I wrapped it in a thin kitchen towel and laid it along my spine to slowly melt as I lay here beneath the window. I sprawl as flat as Diefenbaker--the feel of one part of my body touching another is unbearable, so I press into the cool sheet instead.

 

 

We have a fan. We're drinking water. Dief has suffered me to wet down his fur, which has spiked quite comically. We will survive this undamaged. At the very least, we'll be more comfortable once the sun goes down.

 

 

The fan blows across my face and back. Back and forth as I lay untidily under its sweep. The contrast of hot air and frozen wetness is nearly painful, but I can't bring myself to remove it.

 

 

The radio says that it is 102 degrees. Fahrenheit, of course. That's 39 degrees Celsius. I've never known the thermometer to approach even 30. Then there's the heat index, which brings it up even further, like wind chill in reverse.

 

 

I wish there was a wind to chill me. The breeze is hot and laden with humidity. It isn't cooling, it just keeps me from suffocating.

 

 

Breathing in, breathing out.

 

 

Dief whimpers and licks his nose. This is all so hard on him. I slowly turn my head so that he can see my mouth, wincing as my sweat-covered skin sticks to the cloth. "One hour until sunset."

 

 

He whines.

 

 

"We'll be all right, Dief."

 

 

Dief rolls over onto his back, letting his mouth hang open, exposing his belly to the ceiling. The fever-hot city breathes around us.

 

 

We'll survive.

#  two.

There is a cold draft against the back of my neck. It feels wonderful.

 

 

Dief is lying in front of the vent. The youngest Vecchio child is easing his forepaw into a doll's dress and he doesn't even care. He'll complain later though, I'm sure.

 

 

I'm trapped between Ray and Francesca on the couch. Francesca is discussing--something, I'm not quite sure what--with her sister. Her hands fly as she speaks and every flinch I make presses me closer to Ray.

 

 

Our thighs are pressed together along their entire length, adhering slightly from old sweat. He doesn't seem to mind.

 

 

He's watching the movie on the TV, the nominal reason he invited me over. I try but find myself quite unable to concentrate with so much outside stimulation. But his eyes don't waver and he grins and laughs at regular intervals.

 

 

He shifts to rest his elbow on the arm of the couch and his leg presses into mine even more firmly. Ray glances at me and smiles, reaches up and pats my shoulder. I suppose I must look shell-shocked.

 

 

I sit back and try to watch the movie.

 

 

"Benton!" Francesca turns to me with a cry, her hand landing on my shoulder. "You hang out with women. Isn't it true?"

 

 

"Pardon?"

 

 

"Short skirts are in, right? As in, miniskirts?" She's leaning in close to me, her sister hovering over her shoulder.

 

 

"I, ah, I haven't really noticed. I'm not in the habit of perusing fashion magazines." Ray had to explain to me at the beginning of the hot season that it was perfectly acceptable to wear only a t-shirt without an undershirt. The amount of naked leg exposed by shorts still shocks me sometimes. I don't notice fashion at all.

 

 

"No, Frannie, long skirts are in. Down to your ankles. And real high buttoned blouses, like nuns. It's the nun look," Ray says, leaning over me from the other side. His elbow is resting on my shoulder. He and his sister are face to face across my chest.

 

 

"Oh ha ha, as if you would know anything about fashion."

 

 

"More than you. Now hush. We're trying to watch a movie here." Ray sits back and drapes a friendly arm around me. We're pressed together along the entire length of my side.

 

 

It's all very--

 

 

He's so close to me, closer than any has been in a very long time. He touches me so freely, he takes me into his family and his life without hesitation. He's my friend. He's an excellent friend.

 

 

I try to watch the movie. I try not to wish for things that aren't. I try not to wish for more.

 

 

Dief finally wakes up and shakes his paw, looking wounded. The children giggle.

#  three.

It's midnight. The house is silent. I stand in the kitchen stroking the table.

 

 

I almost sacrificed this. I had no right to. I don't know how they can know that and still let me sit at their table.

 

 

"Benny, what are you doing up?" Ray's leaning against the door frame rubbing his forehead, a stripe of moonlight showing the soft contours of his pajama-clad body. His eyes flicker in and out of view as his hand moves.

 

 

"I'm admiring the grain. This is good wood, Ray."

 

 

Ray gives me an incredulous look. I could watch his face for hours; it is quite transparent. Emotion flows through him like ripples on a pond. "It's late. Don't you have to get up at three a.m. and do calisthenics while singing the Canadian national anthem? Or is that only in the Yukon?" He's smiling at me.

 

 

"Six a.m., Ray, and the calisthenics are optional." I try to smile back.

 

 

"But not the anthem, huh? What's really up, Fraser?"

 

 

I'm still touching the table. "How can you not hate me?" There it is, as plain as I can make it.

 

 

"Because you're my friend and I told you I wouldn't abandon you," he says. "Because things might have gone badly for us, but they didn't, and I can't hold almosts against you."

 

 

"That doesn't seem like enough," I say, but I can see his meaning and it's so simple and pure that it devastates me. I lose my equilibrium and sit heavily in a chair. I'm clutching the back with one hand, trying to anchor myself to the ground.

 

 

"It is. It's enough. It's all we need." He's walking toward me, his hand held out.

 

 

There are times when the slightest touch is enormous, more than I can bear. There are times when the brush of skin against skin feels like lightning; or when the connection feels so intimate that my entire skin, my mind, my history, my future, everything is laid out to the person touching me. There are times when I cannot stand to be touched by anyone.

 

 

This is one of those times. I move my hand into my lap and Ray's hand lands on the back of the chair. He gives me a look both loving and mournful.

 

 

"Come to bed," he says. "We both need our sleep."

 

 

My bedroll is laid out on the floor of Ray's room. I would have taken the living room or a hallway to give Ray some privacy, but he insisted. Diefenbaker is lying on my bedroll but stands at our approach, wagging his tail like the dog he pretends not to be.

 

 

Ray moves to the bed and sits down. "There you are, Dief, getting hair all over my suits. Don't think I didn't notice that." He gets a perverse pleasure out of telling me how many suits of his I've ruined while I remain unscathed. He thinks I don't pay attention to these things, but I do.

 

 

Ray is scratching behind Dief's ears, which Dief knows is strange from Ray but finds enjoyable anyway. He's resting his chin on Ray's knee, his eyes closed.

 

 

He asked me about Steve a few weeks ago. Apparently I mentioned Steve when I was injured. I told him Steve was a friend, which was true, but he was also the first person I ever kissed. I was twenty and he was twenty-two and he found my inexperience endearing.

 

 

Well, I suppose, to be accurate, I had been kissed by other people several times before then, at school dances and the like, but Steve Adler was the only person I had ever kissed back. He was the first person I ever made love to. We had a relationship of sorts for two years, seeing each other once or twice a week until he moved to Vancouver. We wrote for a while but haven't seen each other since. It was very nice but it wasn't exactly love. Friendship without passion, I suppose.

 

 

Then there was Victoria--that was passion.

 

 

I can't think of Victoria right now. I can't. Not any more.

 

 

I'm still standing in the doorway of Ray's bedroom, and he's looking up at me, his hand stilled on Dief's head.

 

 

"Benny," he says, "I'm tired of petting your wolf instead of you. Will you come over here?"

 

 

He's not moving, not reaching, just sitting and waiting. Waiting to see what I'll do.

 

 

I freeze. I've had friendship and I've had passion, but what I have with Ray is different from either of those. To call a spade a spade, it's a schoolboy crush. A fixation on someone safe, someone who won't hurt me, but also someone certain never to reciprocate, or so I thought. But now he's offering to--pet me.

 

 

Oh, God. I'm still standing frozen in his doorway.

 

 

"Benny," he says, "I don't like seeing you all torn up inside when there's something I can do about it."

 

 

I'm still standing. My jaw is clenched. I don't know what to say, there aren't any guidelines.

 

 

"Benny," Ray says, and suddenly it's perfectly clear. This is a razor point; I cannot stand here. I must either go forward or go back. Forward means Ray, and backwards means the vast and hollow unknown.

 

 

I step forward.

 

 

Ray smiles and holds out his hand. He shoves Dief a little. "Go on, get out of here. This is personal."

 

 

Dief grumbles, telling me that his own love life has been conducted in open parks, not behind closed doors, and he doesn't see why he should be turfed from this cozy room.

 

 

"Well, you're a wolf. You aren't intended to run solo," I tell him. Some kind of tension inside me is giving way, like the spinning of a wound spring.

 

 

Dief grumbles again, louder this time, but stands and trots through the open door to sink down against the wall outside. He gives me a reproachful look and rests his head on his paws.

 

 

Now I'm standing at the door again, but it's not the same situation. We're not in the same place. And all I need to do is...close the door.

 

 

So I close the door and turn back toward him.

 

 

I don't know why, but it's the easiest thing in the world to cross the room and sit on the bed beside him. Maybe because that razor point has passed. Maybe because there's no sense in being shy any more. Maybe because all I have to do is sit still and upright beside him and he will lean over and touch his mouth to mine.

 

 

His hand lies hot on my shoulder. I'm touching the soft, slick fabric of his pajamas. I knew they would be silk: Ray keeps his luxury close to his skin. I can feel the strong muscles of his back underneath the silk. His skin is so warm. His mouth is so gentle on mine.

 

 

His tongue brushes against mine and I leap back. It's an electric shock setting my heart to beat like hummingbird wings in my chest. He keeps hold of me with a light hand on my shoulder.

 

 

"I didn't think you wanted this." My voice is barely above a whisper.

 

 

"You weren't supposed to."

#  four.

We spent the night curled together behind Ray's locked bedroom door. We spent the early morning making love very quietly in Ray's soft-sheeted bed. I think Dief approves even though he grumbles.

 

 

When Ray's mother asked why Dief spent the night in the hallway, Ray told her he wouldn't stay off the bed. I was relieved. I'm not ready for this to be exposed to the eyes of others yet.

 

 

We're walking home now, Dief and I. Movement clears the mind. Ray offered to drive us but I needed some time alone with myself, my legs, and the lightening sky.

 

 

He wrapped his arms around me. I can still feel his touch. He kissed me deep, stroking our tongues together. I can still taste his mouth. I remember sighing into his mouth--his chest--his thighs. I remember feeling like I could fly.

 

 

I don't think it shows. This is something private, something just for us. I'm happy and relieved and warm inside, and it was never this good with Victoria. Or even Steve.

 

 

I think I'm in love. Really and truly, for the first time. It swells inside me like opera, or like the Ode to Joy. I turn to Dief. "Shall we sing?"

 

 

Dief whines and looks at the sleeping apartment buildings around us.

 

 

"Oh--yes, you're right. That would be rude."

 

 

He barks his agreement.

 

 

I look up at the sky and smile. It's a beautiful day.

#  five.

 

They had missed Valentine's Day due to two feet of snow. The Consulate closed, the station hibernated with the detectives on call, and Fraser offered to cobble together some snowshoes to hike over to Ray's house. Not that he was sentimental about greeting card holidays; he was sentimental about disappointing Ray. Ray flatly refused and spent the day listening to the police scanner and the evening listening to Frannie complain about missing her date.

 

 

So they celebrated on the 16th when the roads were clear. Dinner and a movie, as if they were sixteen instead of thirty-six, and then home.

 

 

Fraser's apartment was winterized with rough Army surplus blankets nailed to the walls as insulation. The ones over the windows rolled up with twine. The effect was kind of like being in a giant sweater drawer, or maybe the Russian gulag version of a padded cell.

 

 

Ray shook his head. Fraser. If he didn't love the guy so much, he'd run a mile.

 

 

Ray wandered into the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the fridge. Dief was under the table gnawing on the rawhide chew Ray had gotten him. "Admit it," Ray said. "You're only pretending to be a wolf, ya mutt."

 

 

Dief growled.

 

 

"Hey. Don't give me that."

 

 

Ray left Dief to his own devices and crossed back into the main room, where the oil lamp flickered over Fraser's naked body.

 

 

Fraser was sleeping on his back, one arm curled over his head. His skin was so strangely pale--it seemed like there was no barrier between his insides and the world. Anything could walk right through him.

 

 

He was getting soft: too many dinners at the Vecchio house for his slow metabolism. He probably needed to start working out. Those long walks and craziness at work couldn't stand up to Ma's lasagna. There was that long vacation up north that Fraser had been talking about, and that would do it too.

 

 

It wasn't that Ray minded if there was a little more meat on Fraser's bones, but he knew the man pretty damn well by now and he knew it was going to start bothering him eventually.

 

 

Ray sat very carefully on the edge of the jittery bed. Granted it hadn't collapsed yet, but yet was a word full of promise.

 

 

Ray unhooked the gold chain holding his grandfather's cross from his neck. He held it to Fraser's throat, just to see. It bothered him that he'd known Fraser for a year and a half and been sleeping with him for six months and the only mark he'd left on Fraser's body was the bullet hole in his back. Okay, maybe it was a strange impulse, but Ray had a three-inch scar just below his right knee caused by scraping against a sharp rock as he carried Fraser through the Canadian wilderness. It was a badge of honor, a war wound of friendship.

 

 

Okay. It was still a strange impulse. He laid the chain against Fraser's throat; naturally, it looked good.

 

 

"Ray?" Fraser stirred.

 

 

"Right here. You don't have to wake up."

 

 

Fraser opened his eyes and smiled. His right hand, the one at his side, moved to cup Ray's thigh. "I like waking up to you. I can't think of anything I like more." His hand slid from Ray's thigh and moved to his throat to touch Ray's hands and the cross. "What is it?"

 

 

"My cross. I just thought I'd see how it looks on you."

 

 

"Your cross...the one your grandfather gave you?" Fraser uncurled his arm from above his head and used it to prop himself up.

 

 

"I thought I might give it to you."

 

 

"It's an heirloom, Ray! I can't take that away from the next generation of your family. It just wouldn't be right." His expression was wide-eyed and earnest, the kind that Ray could never stand up to. Damn.

 

 

"Okay, okay." Ray refastened it around his neck and looked at his feet.

 

 

"Ray? It's just that I know what it's like, only to have objects to remind you of your family."

 

 

"I get you, Fraser. Thing is that I think of you as part of the family."

 

 

"Oh. Oh." A beautiful, wide smile crept across Fraser's face. "Thank you, Ray." His hand clasped Ray's.

 

 

What Ray wanted to say was: I can't put a ring on your finger, so I want to put my cross around your neck. And what he wanted to say was: It you were a woman I would have asked you to marry me a year ago. But in the end he said nothing.

 

 

"I love you too, Ray," Fraser said, looking as purely happy as Ray had ever seen him.

 

 

Ray opened his mouth wordlessly; then he smiled, and leaned in to kiss Fraser. Kisses would do when words failed.

#  six.

Ray sat in the car watching Fraser talk with the Dragon Lady on the steps of the Consulate. He was thinking about layers. Fraser also, but mostly layers.

 

 

Fraser had layers. The Good Mountie, that was on top. That was a thick layer. Underneath that was the friend and lover, although the friend level bled into the Good Mountie and the lover bled into the Asshole, which Fraser kept hidden very far inside. It pretty much only showed when you hit him on the head. Hard.

 

 

Ray had layers too.

 

 

There was the layer of himself that he had only come to recognize during the almost-two years that he had lived in St. Louis. Not so far away, only a four-hour drive from Chicago, but the freedom that came with a new city showed him parts of himself that he never knew existed.

 

 

That was the layer that slow danced with Jack in his apartment at midnight; Jack who lived two buildings over and was strongly, openly gay. Midnight went on for hours as they swayed and kissed and explored each other. That was the time that taught him to look at men in a whole new way.

 

 

That layer was well hidden under the heterosexual layer and the alpha-male-provider-for-his-family layer, both of which took precedence when his father died and he was suddenly head of the family. Family has always come first. Ray loves his family in a fierce, consuming way.

 

 

He listened when it was telling him that Fraser pinged his gaydar, in fact he pinged pretty reliably, telling him that Fraser was a damn handsome man to boot, telling him that Fraser wouldn't run bare-chested through the night for just anyone.

 

 

The layer that danced with beautiful young men at midnight when he was young and beautiful and free as they were, that layer also cropped up sometimes during quiet moments, wondering why things had to be one way rather than another. It was usually shouted down by the hard-edged Chicago cop layer that pointed out there wasn't any *why,* just *is* and *is not;* but sometimes he listened.

 

 

He had listened to it and started a relationship.

 

 

Well, it was a fair bet that nobody could really imagine Fraser having sex, much less sex with him. So they were safe, right? Because it would never occur to anyone.

 

 

Fraser had soft, soft skin and tough hands. Like the old doll his mother had in a curio cabinet with silk skin and porcelain hands, except that Fraser's hands felt more like wood covered in leather.

 

 

Yesterday morning in the paper there had been an article about two gay men beaten nearly to death on their way home from a bookstore. It was another precinct's case. Ray watched his mother like a hawk as she read it; in the end, she crossed herself and hoped that the men would find God and give up sinning. Ray took his plate and coffee mug to the sink as Frannie, who'd known and been sworn to secrecy about Ray's bisexuality since he was 25 and she 22 and who had almost certainly guessed about him and Fraser, argued with their mother about secular vs. religious sin and tolerance for other beliefs. They had lapsed into vehement Italian by the time Ray left for work.

 

 

He'd thought about that all day and all night. Layers, family, and wants vs. needs.

 

 

The Dragon Lady finally let Fraser go. Dief sprang to his feet, grinning in his canine way. Ray unlocked the car and Fraser climbed in with an enormous smile.

 

 

"Good afternoon, Ray. I'm happy to see you."

 

 

"Good to see you too, Fraser," Ray said, simply looking at his partner for a long moment before shifting the car into gear.

#  seven.

"Ray!" Fraser waved his hand and Ray looked up over the hood of his car. He didn't smile. Fraser ran down the consulate steps to stand at the other side of the car. "Ray, I've had to reschedule the train for tomorrow rather than Tuesday. There was a problem with the Tuesday train, you see. Something about a bear."

 

 

Ray didn't take the bait. "Okay, Benny, I'll keep that in mind."

 

 

"I'm happy to go, but I'll be happier to come back to you," Fraser said quietly.

 

 

"Benny--" Ray looked at his keys and pocketed them. "Fraser, I have to talk to you. Lets take a walk, okay?"

 

 

"Of course, Ray."

 

 

Ray walked around the car. Fraser had that half-smile on his face that meant he was pleased to see his lover; he didn't smile like that all the time. Ray put a hand on his shoulder and steered them down a side street.

 

 

"I have to break it off, Benny."

 

 

"Break it off?"

 

 

"You and me."

 

 

Fraser walked beside him, his head down, silent for a long moment. Ray stuffed his hands in his pockets and counted sidewalk cracks to keep his stomach from aching. Fraser slowed, glancing up and down the empty street; finally he stopped dead and grabbed Ray's arm. "*Why?*"

 

 

"Because I realized I can never take you home to my mother, Fraser, not as anything but my friend. We can't ever be open about this. And that sucks but that's the way it is." Ray searched Fraser's face. The only visible emotion was the growing panic in Fraser's eyes.

 

 

"I just can't do it, Benny. I thought I could but I can't. I can't stop being my mother's son, and if she stops speaking to me then what happens to her and Frannie and Maria and the kids? Then they have to choose, they maybe have to move out of the house, and then the family is broken up. And family comes first. It always has." Ray gestured sadly, a movement of his hands parallel to the ground showing that things were ever the same and there wasn't anything he could do about it. "Blood comes first."

 

 

Fraser was frozen in place, silhouetted against the mud-gray of the street and skyscrapers. One hand squeezed Ray's arm hard enough that he could feel the wild pulse in Fraser's thumb through the thin cotton of his shirt.

 

 

"Ray--" Fraser swallowed. He let go and dropped his head, hiding his eyes with the brim of his hat. "There's nothing to fight, is there."

 

 

It hurt. Of course it hurt. "No, there's not." There is no why, just *is* or *is not.*

 

 

Fraser shook his head. "It can't just end like this. There are ways, Ray--"

 

 

"It has to end. Trust me, I've done this before. It's better that we know where things stand."

 

 

Fraser was still standing there, rock-still and fused to the ground. He looked away finally, staring blindly at the rows of mirrored glass along the walls of the street. "I've never done this, not like this," he murmured.

 

 

Ray put his hand on Fraser's shoulder. "It'll be okay, Benny, it really will. Just go up to Canada, teach Dief to hunt again, do Mountie stuff. Eat lichen. Lick dirt. And when you get back, we can still be friends, just like it used to be."

 

 

"Friends?"

 

 

"You're still my best friend, Benny."

 

 

Fraser nodded, looking back at Ray with glistening eyes. "As are you."

 

 

"Okay. I'll take you to the train station tomorrow."

 

 

"Oh, I'd really prefer to walk before such a long trip sitting down--" He stopped. "This is another gift, isn't it. Like the cross."

 

 

"Yeah, Benny," Ray whispered. He squeezed the shoulder under his hand. "It's okay. You walk. And I'll be there to pick you up when you get back."

 

 

"I'm sorry, I was never very good at recognizing gifts." Fraser's mouth went very tight, but he let Ray pull him closer, stepping into his personal space. Ray embraced Fraser and Fraser put his head on Ray's shoulder, not crying, just holding, and then it was like they were dancing real slow, so slow they were standing still; and then they stopped.

#  eight.

 

Ray was looking over his will. Standard procedure.

 

 

The house went to Frannie; for all her antics she was a stand-up girl and she knew her duty to her family.

 

 

The furnishings went to Ma, so that Frannie wouldn't upholster the living room set in pink velvet.

 

 

His money, what there was of it, went to Maria and the kids--in her name. After Tony's little problems at the track, Ray wasn't going to trust him with a joint account.

 

 

His grandfather's cross went to Fraser. Maybe that way the mook would wear it; he seemed to reserve that kind of sentimentality for the dead. There was a letter, too. The one and only love letter Ray had ever written. Maybe if he came back alive, he would give it to Fraser anyway.

 

 

Damn but this was hard. He didn't want to leave his family, he felt terrible about leaving Fraser in the lurch like this, but he was the only one who could take the assignment. It was his big chance to redeem himself after his own...antics...in the past, the ones Fraser didn't know about and wasn't ever going to.

 

 

The thing was that it meant revisiting that past, pulling on his learning and his street smarts, becoming the old Vecchio again. The pre-Fraser Vecchio. Thing was, he didn't think he liked that Vecchio as much as his current incarnation.... But after this assignment he could do anything he wanted.

 

 

It would be hard on him, hard on Ma, hard on Fraser, but that's life for you. Difficult, full of unexpected turns, and never quite as long as you expected.

 

 

Ray looked over his will and decided it looked just fine.

#  nine.

 

Fraser thought about Ray as Ray's replacement drove them to the restaurant. Ray's postcard was tucked inside his jacket next to his heart. Fraser liked the man, but--it hurt. He hurt.

 

 

Ray pulled over and hopped out at a Chinese restaurant that Fraser and the old Ray, *his* Ray, had been to many times. Fraser would order in Cantonese and Ray would glare and accuse him of showing off--

 

 

"Hey, you okay there, Fraser? All of a sudden you look like somebody ran over your dog." The new Ray stood with one hand on the door.

 

 

"He's a wolf." Fraser ran his thumb over his eyebrow and collected himself. "I'm sorry, it's been a rather trying day." He was treading water in a flood of memories, trying to keep his head above the tide.

 

 

"S'ok if you change your mind."

 

 

"No--no--I invited you. I'm fine." He took a deep breath and opened the door. "After you."

 

 

"Why thank you."

 

 

The hostess seated them at a small, quiet booth near the back. "It's very good to see you again, Mr. Fraser," she said in Cantonese, and winked.

 

 

"Thank you," Fraser replied. She beamed and left the table.

 

 

"She just flirt with you?" Ray asked, sounding incredulous.

 

 

"Ah--yes--I believe she did."

 

 

"Unbelievable. Do beautiful women often walk up and flirt with you?"

 

 

"It happens rather frequently, I'm afraid."

 

 

"Aw jeez. So I better not stand next to you if I'm trying to get a date. Thanks, Fraser, that's good to know."

 

 

Fraser blinked. That didn't quite make sense to him, but--well. "You're welcome, Ray." Politeness dictated the proper response.

 

 

They both looked at the menu silently. Fraser was glad for a pause. Tofu with vegetables in brown sauce sounded refreshing after two months of stew and meat roasted over a fire. It was strange how he had developed a taste for Americanized food when he had always found it vaguely morally repugnant.

 

 

The waiter arrived and Ray ordered hot oolong tea and egg rolls for both of them and sesame beef for himself. He gave Fraser another look after Fraser ordered and the waiter left. "Tofu? As in, bean curd? You eat that?"

 

 

"It's nutritious and quite tasty when prepared correctly, Ray."

 

 

"Ugh. You grow up eating caribou, I guess you can eat anything. Me, I won't touch the stuff."

 

 

"My grandparents always taught me never to pass up a new source of good food." It was both familiar and strange, sitting at this restaurant with Ray, being teased about his choice of food and his upbringing, but seeing blond hair across the table.

 

 

"So," Ray said. "What were you getting up to in the Northwest Territories?"

 

 

He got it right that time. Fraser was oddly pleased. "I ran Diefenbaker through some remedial hunting and tracking drills, made architectural plans to rebuild my father's cabin, and stopped a major polluter from dumping further waste in an Inuit village."

 

 

Ray's eyebrows shot up. "That's all, huh?"

 

 

"Well, it *was* a vacation. I spent most of my time by myself." Alone but for Diefenbaker and the birds in the trees, thinking about Ray. The melancholy returned in a rush.

 

 

"There you are with that look again! Come on, Fraser, tell me what's up."

 

 

"Ray, I'm afraid that I have--that is--" Words failed Fraser in a way that they never had before. He ducked his head, wishing that he had his hat on to cover his eyes; but he was indoors and it wouldn't be polite.

 

 

"What is it, Fraser?"

 

 

He had to tell him. He couldn't tell him. Ray, his Ray would be terribly upset if Fraser told anyone else about them. Wouldn't he? But at the same time, he had to talk to someone or he would burst, and wasn't the most logical choice someone trusted with Ray Vecchio's safety already? "If I told you something, would you keep it to yourself?" Fraser asked, quietly and urgently.

 

 

"Of course! That's what being partners is all about." Ray spoke without hesitation, pushing aside his water glass and leaning over the table toward Fraser. "What's on your mind?"

 

 

He had to tell Ray about Ray, there was no option. He had to--explain things. But he had no idea how. He didn't know the words. There was no etiquette here. He tried anyway: "Ray and I were very close--closer than you've been given to believe."

 

 

"You and he had a thing." Ray said it as a statement, not a question.

 

 

"Yes." Fraser let out his breath. "Your intuition is impeccable."

 

 

"Nah, I just know how people act. A guy gets all worked up like that, it's usually because of, you know, a thing. Relationship." Ray leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. "So. Gorgeous women walk up to you and flirt with you on a daily basis and you're sleeping with Vecchio?"

 

 

"It was more than just sleeping together."

 

 

"Love," Ray said, nodding his head. "I get that."

 

 

"Ray called it off shortly before my vacation, however. I was hoping to speak to him when I returned, to attain some sense of closure." It felt good to speak about it once he found his voice. And--this new Ray had taken a bullet for him, that had to count for something. A vest was no protection against a shot to the arm or leg or head.

 

 

"Figured out what you wanted to say once the shock wore off, huh?" Ray seemed quite sympathetic, in fact.

 

 

"Yes, I suppose so."

 

 

"And then you came back to find my pretty face instead."

 

 

"Yes." He lowered his eyes again. "You'll forgive me if I'm a little, ah, disappointed."

 

 

"I pretty much figured that out already."

 

 

Fraser rubbed his thumbs against each other, bursting with words. Dief was good to talk to but his answers weren't terribly helpful, and Fraser hadn't allowed himself to speak of his relationship with anyone else. Ray, this Ray, seemed sympathetic and his face was so open--"I had rehearsed things to say, in the hopes that--well, he was quite clear as to why he thought we couldn't continue, and those circumstances haven't changed--but I thought that if we couldn't be together, then I could at least find out why it wasn't enough. Why love wasn't enough," he whispered to his hands.

 

 

"I don't know. I knew that secret, I'd sell it and be a millionaire. And I'd still be with--well, maybe not, but I wouldn't be here. We're both here because we're just a couple of guys who don't know the mysteries of the universe."

 

 

Fraser leaned his face in both hands, his eyes aching. "I am sorry," he said. "I don't mean to be a bother."

 

 

"We're partners, right? Something's on your mind, you talk to your partner." Ray nodded his head.

 

 

Fraser concentrated on air for a long moment. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe the warm spiced air and the slightly lakey smell of the new Ray. "I just don't know what to do. I can't help but think that if it were anyone else, I would know what advice to give."

 

 

"Eh. You know what they say: you can lick your friends, you can lick your friends' noses, but you can't lick your own nose."

 

 

Fraser frowned, distracted. "They say that?"

 

 

"Sure."

 

 

"I've never heard anyone say it." He mentally ran through the peculiar Chicago slang phrases he had heard since his relocation, but in the end he was quite sure that he had never heard one about nose licking.

 

 

"Maybe not, but I just said it, and if you say it that'll be two people, and then we can be a 'they'," Ray said, his lips twitching. Finally he gave in and grinned and started laughing.

 

 

"Are you unhinged?" Fraser asked, but he was smiling anyway.

 

 

"Nah, just hungry. Lucky for us the food is coming." Ray pointed; Fraser looked; the food arrived; and to Fraser's surprise, he felt better. He felt okay.

 

 

If this Ray wasn't his Ray, he could still be a friend. And if his Ray wasn't *his Ray* any longer, then maybe this comfortable friendship could be enough.

 

 

The floor thrummed with sub-audible Hong Kong techno music; the walls were a warm, familiar red. The food smelled savory and filling and the eternally hopeful Dief had already laid his muzzle on Fraser's knee to beg. And maybe it wasn't where he wanted to be or who he wanted to be with, but the dissonance was no longer painful. It was fine; it was good enough.

 

 

Fraser picked up the chopsticks and rice bowl and began to eat.

#  end.

all comments, positive or negative or in between, are very welcome.


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